


Woodstock (1969)

by monicawoe



Series: How They Make You a Weapon [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Drug Use, Gen, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3803152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monicawoe/pseuds/monicawoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a HTMYAW side-mission written for the following prompts:</p><p>1969, Woodstock, pink flower, Make it look like an overdose.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Woodstock (1969)

There are thousands of people here. The air is thick with the smell of them, the stench of their sweat and smoke, and their sound is nearly loud enough to drown out the music in the distance. Grass and soil turn to mud beneath their shoes.

Your target is somewhere at this gathering. She doesn't come out into the open often, but this she couldn't resist. You have a clear image of her in your mind—three photographs shown to you during your mission briefing. She's dangerous only because of her intellect, and will pose no threat physically.

There are no shadows to hide in, but there's a teeming crowd as large as an ocean that gives you all the cover you need, and pays you no mind. Your armor is hidden beneath a denim jacket; your left hand is mostly hidden under a leather glove; your knives are sheathed in your boots, and there's a gun tucked into the back of your pants, but you won't need it. Your weapon tonight is a small envelope of powder. Mission protocol is different from the norm. The orders state: _Make her the offer. If she refuses, kill her. Make it look like an overdose._

Judging by the size of the crowd, it could take you hours to find the woman Hydra has sent you to kill—Dahlia Escher, a chemist. Her scientific breakthroughs evolved over the course of a decade from innovative medical techniques to the beginnings of tailored evolution. Hydra tried to recruit her, but she refused, and has since taken to manufacturing items of a more recreational nature. There's a good chance she'll be distributing them here.

The spectators have set up shelters--lean-tos and tents to protect them from the sun and the rain you can smell approaching in the air. It's in one of these that you find her, less than an hour after arriving.

Dahlia is sitting cross-legged under a tent made of poles and a large, green plastic tarp. The air under the tarp is smoky with incense and sage. A long-haired man in a robe hands you a hashish cigarette when you step inside and gestures at the empty spot of grass next to him. You sit down, fold your legs to mirror theirs. Next to Dahlia is another woman, with pigtails and flowers in her hair. She smiles at you as you take a drag from the cigarette and her eyebrows dart up, surprised, when she sees the metal of your wrist. "From the war?"

You shrug, since you don't know the answer, and keep your hand stiff as you give the cigarette to her.

"Heavy," says the long-haired man to your right. "Were you drafted? Where you from, man?"

"Don't ask so many questions, Jeremy," says Dahlia, studying you. "We've all got our pasts, what matters is now, right?"

"Right on," Jeremy says. He hands the cigarette back to you.

You take another, strong drag and exhale slow. The drug won't affect you.

"Not even a cough," Pigtails says. "Got some strong lungs. Cute too." She takes one of the flowers out of her braids—a small, pink one, and sticks it behind your ear.

You give her a practiced, pleasant smile. They've all seen your face. Dahlia is your primary mission, but if she refuses Hydra's offer, none of them are going to leave this tent.

Pigtails moves her slender fingers down, brushes the pads of her fingers across your cheek. "That's one crazy aura you've got." Her eyes narrow as she cocks her head to the side, like she's trying to focus. "All cracked like stained glass with pieces missing."

You shake your head, even though the unpleasant sensation in your gut tells you she's right. There's a big emptiness where your memories should be. You have fragments of them--people without faces, years without dates, the smell of the ocean, the touch of skin on skin, a shock of blond hair and a smile that meant everything, once.

"Something been scrambling your thoughts?" Dahlia asks. Her expression is guarded.

"Jeremy, you seeing this?" Pigtails says, nudging the robed man's shoulder.

Jeremy squints. "Mescaline's messing with me again--can't look like that. Green and blue and so much red. Nobody's got that much red."

Dahlia reaches behind her for a thermos and hands it to you. "Chamomile tea?"

You smile at her and nod. The tea is a perfect delivery device for the poison. It's tasteless, odorless and potent enough, that even diluted, it will do the trick.

She hands you a small paper cup. "Go ahead."

It occurs to you that Dahlia may very well have put something in the tea already. You inhale deeply. There's a vaguely bitter scent behind the flowers, but the chances of it being potent enough to effect you are slim. Hydra made you strong. The thermos is nearly empty, just enough left to fill your cup. You meet Dahlia's eyes evenly as you bring the cup to your lips and drink it down in one go. "Can I have some more?" you ask.

Her face pales, but she's had enough practice to not show any other signs that she's on to you.

In this kind of negotiation, you were told, unnerving the target is often more effective than outright threats.

She smiles, and tucks a strand of her strawberry-blonde hair behind her ear. "Glad you like the tea. The flowers are from my garden." She reaches for another thermos and hands it to you, leaning forward on her knees, close enough to whisper in your ear, "There was enough in there to drop a horse. What are you?"

You smile at her as she straightens and sits back on her knees. As you refill your cup, you slip one of the small packets of powder from your sleeve out into your other hand, emptying the contents. When you go to close the thermos back up, you let the powder fall inside. "Drink with me?" you say, as you hand the thermos to Pigtails.

She grins, grabs three more cups from the small stack on the ground. "What's your name?" she asks as she opens the thermos. "Sorry, I mean, what do we call you?"

You let out a non-committal huff and shake your head. "I'm nobody."

"Mm," her brow furrows as she pours herself a cup of tea, and then pours two more for the others. Jeremy bows his head as she hands him a cup and takes a sip right away, eyes closing in the steam. "We all feel that way some days." She raises her cup to him in a toast. "But you're here, sharing tea with us, at the greatest show the world's ever seen. That makes you somebody." She winks at Dahlia who hasn't stopped staring at you. "Somebody with good taste." Pigtails takes a sip of her own cup.

Dahlia hasn't touched hers. She's still looking at you, waiting.

In the back corner of the tent, there's a pile of blankets that shifts and moves, revealing another man—small, rail-thin and fast asleep. You didn't even notice him on your way in. He'll be dealt with soon enough, after you take care of the others. You drain the rest of your tea, and watch from the corner of your eyes as Pigtails and Jeremy drink theirs.

It takes thirty seconds for the drug to hit their bloodstreams. They slump to the ground, dead--Jeremy first, then Pigtails. They look peaceful, like they've settled in for a nap.

Dahlia swallows, eyes glassy with anger. "Well? Don't you have a message for me?"

"They want me to tell you the offer still stands, but this is your last chance. Come with me. There's a van waiting a mile down the road."

"No."

"Then..." you pick up the last small cup of tea and hand it to her. "Drink up."

Dahlia takes the cup, and drains its contents in one go, never taking her defiant eyes off of you.

She takes a hold of Jeremy's hand and then Pigtails, before lying down on her side between them. Another twenty seconds pass before her eyes go still and her breathing stops.

Lightning brightens the sky, flash-bang white, and a loud crack of thunder follows. The small, sleeping man who you'd almost forgotten sits up. He blinks and runs a hand through pale blond hair, stares at you blankly before pushing himself to his feet. Something about his eyes gives you pause.

He staggers out of the tent, equilibrium still off from sleep, or drugs, or both. You watch him as he comes to a stop a few feet in front of the tent, head tilted back as fat drops of rain land on his face. There's something familiar about him, something that makes your insides ache and your breath catch in your throat.

Protocol states that he should die too. He was asleep when you killed the others, but even high, he's likely to put two and two together. His neck will snap easily, you can wait until he comes back inside, or go out after him, grab him before he gets too close to the rest of the crowd. You duck your head as you step out of the tent, calculating the best angle to approach him. The rain feels cool on your skin and another flash of lightning illuminates the field, highlighting the man's cheekbones.

Another step closer and another. You reach out to grab him, and stop. You remember a worn couch, a storm as heavy as this one, running through the rain with drenched shoes and socks and he was—he was laughing. It hurts to think about, though you don't know why—there's no connection between the random images in your head and the here and now—so why do those thoughts feel like they're clawing apart your insides?

Your heart thuds in a way you're sure it never has, and you lunge for him, grab for his shoulder. It'll be quick, you think, just one twist, one snap and this undefinable torment will stop. But he slips out of your reach, twines his way in between the others. The music from the stage picks up again, loudly, and the crowd spills out around you, a swelling tide. It pulls you in, bodies moving in time to the rhythm. His laugh is close, louder than the pounding of the drums and you follow the sound of his voice until you see him, just ahead.

Again you move in on him—grasp him by the shoulder, but your hand never makes contact—your fingers find only air. He dissolves into ash under your metal fingers and the after-image of him melts away in the rain.


End file.
